


all i ever wanted is here

by peggyolson



Series: this is the fate you’ve carved on me [3]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 04:08:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2607953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peggyolson/pseuds/peggyolson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>he doesn’t know what the fuck a sonnet is. he’d find out for ian gallagher.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all i ever wanted is here

**Author's Note:**

> part of the 'ian and mickey move to new york, are happy' verse; now part of a brand-spankin' new series! anyway, i don't know what this is

Harlem works for them.

It reminds him of the Southside, only smaller, somehow, and louder, and dirtier, and with better food. 

Which is to say that Mickey likes it. 

He likes Harlem and their shitty apartment and their loud neighbors who fight so much that he and Ian are actually starting to understand Spanish. He likes their cubicle of a bathroom; he likes all the cracks in the walls, the ones that came with the apartment, the ones they put there.

It’s a lot more liking than he’s used to, honestly.

Ian’s bare feet are in his lap, toes curling absently in the hem of his t-shirt and poking Mickey in the stomach. He hums around a mouthful of pasta, his eyes lighting up as a car gets pulled over. “Oh shit, here goes this dude.”

He likes this, too – eating dinner on the windowsill and watching people get arrested in front of their building. It’s not nighttime in East Harlem until they hear a siren.

Mickey shakes his head. “Yo, can you imagine all the shit we’d be missing if we had cable?” 

They both hiss sympathetically when the drunk bastard falls on his face trying to walk in a straight line.

“ESPN for poor people,” Ian says wisely, sitting up to steal a meatball from Mickey’s plate, throwing him a straight up disarming little grin. And he wins, like always.

Mickey doesn't really mind.

 

*

 

The sun is just coming up when he blinks awake to find Ian spread over his chest, snoring quietly, hands twisted in the sheets at Mickey’s waist. He readjusts, slides a few fingers through Ian’s hair, thinks he can hear his own heartbeat.

 

*

 

He doesn’t understand a lot of things.

Like why sometimes Ian won’t – _can’t_ , he reminds himself, _can’t_ – get out of bed, why sometimes he shies away from Mickey’s touch, why they’re perpetually having the same fights about medicine and doctors and therapists. 

What he does understand is that Ian takes his mood stabilizer in the morning and his anti-depressant in the afternoon. He understands what will happen if Ian misses too many dosages in a row. He understands how to get Ian the pills he needs. He understands that he will, with no hesitation or exaggeration, do whatever he has to do to get them.

He understands how much that thought scares him.

  

*

 

Mickey doesn’t know shit about poetry, but _fucking poetic_ is the only way he can think to describe Ian’s hands. The last time he heard the word sonnet he was high out of his mind in freshman English, but he thinks he could write one about Ian’s hands, maybe. If he tried hard enough.

His too big hands and the way they fit around Mickey’s hips, drawing him close, leaving deep red marks on his skin. Always sure, precise, warm.

The way they slip down the front of his jeans and stroke him lazily until Mickey’s gasping and gripping the counter with white-knuckled fingers and their coffee goes ice cold. 

Mickey grunts, his back flush against Ian’s chest, grinding into his crotch. “I got work, you fuck.” 

“Couldn’t help myself,” Ian says, close to ear. “God, _Mick_ —” 

Yeah, he could write sonnets about this.

About Ian’s hands and the hard muscles in his arms when he holds Mickey against the wall and fucks him there, about the freckles on the curve of his ass, about the way he sounds saying Mickey’s name when he comes. 

He doesn’t know what the fuck a sonnet is. He’d find out for Ian Gallagher.

 

*

  

It’s raining like it’s the end of the goddamn world and Mickey’s in bed, messing around with the iPod dock Ian stole from Lip before they left Chicago. He’s got a cigarette burning between his lips and can hear Ian brushing his teeth down the hall.

“You ready for another one?” Ian gives a muffled protest that Mickey takes as a yes. “Before he started writing songs about his fuckin’ watches and shit, Hov was _it_ , man, I'm telling you.” He scrolls until he finds the right song. 

Ian comes in wearing only a frown and Mickey’s boxers, flopping stomach-first on the mattress. “Please stop talking about Jay Z like he's your friend.”

“I mean, he's not anymore.” Mickey catches himself mouthing the words and looks over to see Ian grinning up at him. “ _What?_ ”

“Just cute when you care about stuff.”

Mickey scowls.

He gets through three more songs and what is apparently too much commentary for Gallagher’s delicate brain when Ian’s eyelids start fluttering dangerously. “Am I keeping you up, princess?” 

“Shh,” Ian mumbles, nuzzling his nose against Mickey’s hip, wrapping an arm around his waist, fitting close to Mickey’s body, too close, not close enough.

He fills everything in, Mickey thinks, all the sharp edges and the rough spots and the empty spaces. Ian fills him in. He always has. 

He slides a hand through Ian’s hair and shuts off the music. “I’m tryna educate your dumb ass.”

“Your fault for always doing this at night.”

“What, you got a bedtime or something?”

Ian smiles at Mickey with a half-lidded gaze before pulling him into a kiss and yawning into his mouth.

“Fuck you,” Mickey tries to say, but kisses back instead.

 

*

 

Mickey loves him.

The words get lost every time, but god, he loves him.

Mickey loves him and he thinks that six years is a long fucking time to love someone and not get tired of loving them. 

He loves him. He knows. Ian knows. It’s enough.

  

*

 

“You sound happy,” Mandy tells him over the phone. He can hear someone in the background call her name.

“Eh,” Mickey says.

“You _do_.” She pauses. “Ian’s happy. He told me.”

Mickey’s chest tightens.

“Ian’s an asshole,” he says, just to watch Ian pick up the nearest object – an empty beer can – and peg it at him with truly frightening accuracy. It bounces off his forehead. “ _Ow_ , fuck.”

“What was that?”

“Gallagher threw somethin’ at me,” Mickey mumbles, rubbing at the spot above his eyebrow. He flips Ian his middle finger.

“You deserved it.” After a second, she adds, “Dickhead.”

“What were we talking about again?”

“How not happy you are.”

“Yeah. Well. I’m not.”

“Uh huh,” she says, a little sad. Her name is called again and she sighs. “Okay, I gotta get back to work. Tell Ian he was mine first which means he has to answer my text. Like now.”

Mickey half-smiles. “Whatever.”

 

*

  

He talks a big game, but sometimes all it takes is the sight of a freckle on Ian’s ankle to fuck him up.

“You’re getting soft,” Ian says, dodging the punch Mickey throws at him with a laugh. He caught on to Mickey rubbing a thumb over the spot and hasn’t shut up about it since. “I made you _soft_.”

“Those really what you want your last words to be?”

Ian kicks Mickey’s shin; Mickey slaps Ian’s cheek. It’s all very romantic.

  

*

 

“You’re a goddamn idiot.”

Ian shakes his head, reaching for Mickey’s wrist. “I refuse to admit that was a bad idea.” 

“Fine, I’ll do it for you,” Mickey says, scratching his blunt nails over Ian’s shoulders as he bites at his jaw. “Gallagher, eating a bagel in the shower was a stupid fucking idea.” 

“Okay, well, ‘bad idea’ and ‘stupid fucking idea’ are two different things.”

“Artistic license.”

“My intentions were good.”

“There are crumbs in my _soap_.”

“I was running late.”

“I’ll pay you five million dollars to shut up,” Mickey says, and pushes their mouths together sloppily. Ian’s still wearing his shirt, which is total bullshit, and it gets tangled in their mess of limbs as he tries to take it off. Mickey tosses it out of the way as Ian drags him into his lap. “How did we not grab—”

“I got it,” Ian says, ignoring Mickey’s impatient groan when he leans over the side of the bed retrieve a small bottle of lube out of his jeans pocket.

Mickey smirks, impressed. Damn. His guy.

He watches, transfixed, while Ian slicks up his fingers. “Hurry _up_ , Gallagher.”

Ian hums noncommittally against his skin. Mickey bites his lip and rocks back against his hand, his cock aching and flushed against his stomach. 

Ian’s giving him _that_ look, the one Mickey can’t handle, so he just throws a vague insult disguised as a demand for _more_ his way and Ian laughs.

“You’re the boss,” Ian says, and then all of a sudden there are three fingers and it’s so good and _fuck, Ian, come on, come on_. 

Mickey lets out a heavy breath, pulling himself onto his knees and wrapping a hand around Ian’s cock, guiding it forward until they’re lined up. He sinks down, takes him deep and all at once, quick and hot and so _much_ that he shouts. “Jesus—” 

Ian huffs another soft, breathless laugh, one hand roaming over the expanse of Mickey’s back, the other spread over his thigh, over the bullet-shaped scar from a million years ago. “You good?” 

“Yeah, fuck, of course,” Mickey murmurs, rolling his hips so sharply that it makes them both gasp.

Mickey can’t feel anything except this, except the feeling of Ian’s cock sliding in and out of him as he moves, hitting him fucking  _everywhere_ , how does this never get old—

He pulls up again until nothing is left but the tip and then drives back down unceremoniously. He’s hyper-aware of every noise Ian’s making and, fuck, that never gets old either, does it? 

“Holy shit, Mick.” Ian’s breathing hard, his sweaty hair falling in his eyes, and his gaze snaps back and forth between Mickey’s face to where he sits in his lap, a stunned little set to his mouth.

Mickey knows the feeling. 

With no warning, Ian flips them so he’s on top, holding Mickey around the waist and thrusting into him hard and dirty and perfect, perfect, _perfect_. 

“ _Fuck_ , Ian,” he manages.

“I gotcha,” Ian says, wrapping a hand around Mickey’s cock.

Mickey comes, not gracefully, seconds later, tossing his head back, moaning desperately. He clenches around Ian and then he’s not far behind, hips snapping of their own accord through his orgasm. 

He loves him. This is it, Mickey thinks, this is _it_.

They stay like that for a minute or five or an hour, Mickey’s hand resting possessively on Ian’s ass, kissing slowly, like time has stood still.

“I was kidding about that boss thing,” Ian says, finally pulling out and rolling onto his back. 

Mickey buries a grin in Ian’s freckled chest, throws a leg over him. “Shut the fuck up, man.”


End file.
